


Take A Chance On Me

by gothkink



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 18 yo Harry, 27 yo Louis, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Assortment of Lube, Bare-backing, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Break Up, Car Sex, Celebrities & Parties, Chefs, Comfort Sex, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Crying During Kissing, Eager Harry Styles, Eating During Sex, Felching, First Times, Fluff, Food Kink, Français | French, Gen, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Intense Orgasms, Jealousy, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marriage Discussion, Missionary Position, Mutual Masturbation, Old Folk, Old Louis, Pining, Porn, Riding, Rimming, Smut, Spanking, Stress Baking, Teasing During Sex, Underage - Freeform, United Kingdom, Unrequited doubt, Wisdom, Young Harry, come facials, man on boy, thigh-fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:56:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothkink/pseuds/gothkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson is a French Pastry Chef who specializes in breads and tortes, and apparently Harry Styles, too — a very opinionated, unpretentious and shy British student he's accomodating in his home, who feels more than he has felt in the last Eighteen years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry elevates a sigh, and allows the wheels of his suitcase to stop. He turns around, mumbling in indignant exasperation, ''yes mum?"

''Come here.'' She demands, waving a hand over to Harry. Harry chimes out another sigh, giving a roll of the eye. His Converse shoes pad against the white tiles as he makes his way over to his mum, his suitcase in tow.

''Are you sure you have everything?'' She extends her arm, taking the lint off the collar of Harry's coat. And he takes a begrudging step back, ''do you have the crumpets? Make sure to give it to him when you get there. And don't forget about the Cornish pastry. I'm sure he'll love it.''

Harry's mums hand rises, and she manages to rake a hand through his mane of hair. But he ducks away, dodging her actions and letting out an inanimate whine. His lips press into a thin line. ''And I'm sure he'll just dispose them. Mum, he's a _Pastry_ Chef. Don't you reckon he's had a taste of every pastry?''

She nods, letting her hands rest at her sides.

''I thought you wanted to treat him, though.''

''I _did_.'' He says. And bites his lip, ''but he probably gets baked gifts every year he does this. It won't really fancy his buds.''

Harry's mums head moves from side-to-side. And she steadies a hand on his shoulder, allowing her fingers to squeeze the soft fabric of his coat. ''Oh, don't say that. He'll love them; your crumpets are the yummiest.''

''Thanks,'' Harry says, and turns his head to the side, looking up at the Flight Display System. The neon coloured letters and numbers read that his flight is due to leave in Fifteen minutes, ''but I really have to go, mum.''

He adjusts the overnight bag on his shoulders, and turns back to the woman in front of him.

''I'll miss you, mum.'' He tells her. He takes her hand off his shoulder with his own, giving it a benign squeeze, ''I promise I'll _try_ to Facetime you and Robin everynight.''

She nods her head, and smiles an impaired one. Harry can tell that she doesn't want to let go. ''It's better than nothing. I'm going to miss you, baby.''

Harry shrugs the name off; as he knows his mum will never stop the consistent babying.

He's been through this ever since he was newborn baby, or at least that's what Gemma persists - he was rarely allowed to play outside with his friends when he peeked at Elementary school. Cr

èche, was the _most appalling time_ , though, according to Gemma, again. His mum had packed in an extra bandage with poultice every morning, and it was vital that she taught him survival skills with a First-Aid Kit she bought from the mall when he was only Seven years old. He was always clumsy and off balance.

So it was no surprise that she was so muddled and crestfallen about him leaving. He didn't blame her though, he was leaving for three full months to a strange country, where climates were temporarily warmer, and the English roll of the tongue wasn't the most noturious language.

He'd have to make sure to look _left_ , not right, before he crosses the street.

He turns back to his mum, giving her a sorrowful smile. With one last goodbye, and a subtle kiss to her forehead, he waves his hand and strides over to his flights terminal.

 

...

The flight goes faster than Harry thinks. He spends most of his time calling air-hostesses back and fourth; deciding that he'd better take what he can get out of all of his Fourty-Five minutes he had on the airplane. If it weren't for the free WiFi, he'd much rather have died of boredom.

He pulls one earphone out of his earhole, lowering the volume of one of Deee Lites songs that had came up on shuffle. He hawls himself forward, tearing the silver foil off the top of his pudding cup. The remains of it is sticky, golden caramel that had dispersed from the top layer of the pudding.

He feels muddled. That was a _really_ good pudding.

He quickly moves his hand to the miniature table in front of him, and scoots his mobile into his hands, as it gives off heavy vibrations against the marble top. Beneath the time on his lock-screen, is a message from the guy that he would be staying at for the three, consecutive months.

I will be at the airport when your flight lands.

He dismisses the text message, and instead thumbs his scroll until he's at the homescreen again, and deletes the 'text message' tab from his category of tabs. When he puts his phone back down, the guy who has been sat beside him for the duration of Fourty-Five long minutes, has put his headphones over his head.

Harry frowns, the guy hadn't even said as much of a hello since they had sat down. He turns his head the other way, balancing his elbow onto the armrest and resting his chin onto the palm of his hand. Below him, he can see through the tiny compartment of the airplane window, that they're already in Paris, or probably close-by. He leans a bit forward, never minding that his forehead is pressed up against the cool glass of the window, as he tries to locate the Eiffel Tower.

Then he sees it. It's like a giant, almost immense building that gets narrow, and more narrow by increasing height. He can see the golden tubes of rivets that assembles the tall monument, and he feels his fingertips collide with the window.

He never would've thought that he'd see the Eiffel Tower up close.

He always saw them in those Travel & Guide magazines his mum and Robin would bring home after they came from Ohio or Milan. It had become a religion where he only saw famous monuments in magazines. Harry was most excited for the Opera Garnier. Even after another three years, he had still been interested in the Operas and the ballet recitals that would be show-cased there . He often ventured on Youtube - looking up videos of one of the plays, and it wasn't that ballet was his _thing_. He just enjoyed learning about the Historical French monuments.

When Harry turns back to put his head down on the seat, he hears a slow, throttling hum, coming from outside the airplane. And he gathers that they're about to land.

He looks out to the side of the window, and watches as the flaps of the plane extends, giving off an almost incoherent, mechanical hum that leaves the plane thrusting in the air.

Immediately one of the air hostesses that had been getting Harry drinks and pudding the entire time, makes her way to the front of the airplane, holding the speaker in hand. A light smile lilts on her face, and the slow talks of every passenger gradually dies down when they notice her presence.

''Ladies and Gentlemen,'' the air hostess begins, wavering an apparent smile through red lips, ''Welcome to the Charles de Gualle International Airport in Paris where the local time is Fourty Five minutes past Six in the Evening. The outside temperature is Twenty Nine degrees Celsius.''

The flaps start to extend slowly outward from the inner half, and the aiplane naturally lifts. Harry looks around, and nobody's really listening, they're only but gathering their mobile phones, their iPads and their Macbooks, putting them into their bags and their brief cases. The air hostess raises her voice, and again the voices die down almost immediately.

Harry's fingertips loop around the metal of his seatbelt.

''For your comfort and safety please remain with your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop and the seatbelt sign has been switched off,'' she says, and Harry's hands immediately flop down to his lap again, ''before leaving the aircraft, make sure to take all of your personal belongings with you by checking the seat pocket and the overhead locker,'' her voice chimes through the speaker, and Harry quickly puts his mobile phone into the zipper of his overnight bag.

''If you have a connecting flight, make sure you're at the gate not later than Thirty minutes before departure. For any assistance, visit the information desk. We thank you for choosing Eurostar and hope you've enjoyed the flight with us. We look forward to serving you again soon. Thank you and Good Evening.''

Finally, the airplanes nose points downward, and it slowly throttles back, until it falls, slowly, and _slowlier_.

When the air hostess announces that it's safe to take the seatbelts off, Harry's fingers are quick to unhook it around his body. He shoves his earphones into his jacket pocket, and slowly rises from his seat. He eventually sits back down, when the very front of the airplane starts dispersing out of the aircraft first.

He takes his mobile out of his overnight bag again, and unlocks it.

He hasn't gotten a single text message, or even phone call from Louis Tomlinson - the guy he'll be staying with. And he isn't sure if it's his place to call the man, to have him know his plane has landed. He doesn't want to seem _too_ forward.

This guy is French, a prime Pastry chef and he's rich.

When the last bit of people have gotten out of the aircraft; Harry and the guy beside him, along with the rest of the passengers, get off from their seats and make their way out of the airplane.

The Charles de Gualle International Airport is much larger than the one back home in London. On either side of the massive lot, there are airplanes readying themselves for departure. The massive building in front of him, is played out with large, glass windows, and lights all around the railways.

When Harry arrives at the Customs and Border Protection section of the airport, he's met with an officer who's tall and lanky. He reminds him of himself, except he has short black hair on his sculp, and he's growing out a long beard. Harry doesn't even remember the time when he had to think about shaving any part on his face.

He reaches into his overnight bag, and takes out his Visa, along with his documents containing all his information he had summarized.

The tall officer goes behind the computer, and Harry sighs impatiently, tilting his head and taking a step back. He turns around, trying to make out if he can spot Louis Tomlinson. Except, the only problem is, that he hasn't seen a good quality photo of the man.

He does remember a head that is haloed by long, brown hair, though.

When the officer comes back to Harry, he still has the documents in his hands, and Harry lets out an internal sigh.

''Why are you visiting the French Republican?'' The offices deep, Parisian accent throttles.

And Harry nods, because his mum had warned him about this. He'd have to answer a set of questions; just to make sure he wasn't bringing any illegal drugs into the country. Even though Harry is _almost_ sure he hasn't even seen a bag of weed, or cocaine before.

''I'm majoring in the Culinary Arts field, and I'm staying here for a three month course as a student.''

The officer nods, looking down at the documents, and then he lifts his head again, giving Harry a skeptical look. ''Who will you be visiting?''

''Louis Tomlinson. He specializes in Pastry and that.''

''Alright,'' the officer says, and puts the documents into a laminated file, along with Harry's Visa. ''You're free to go, monsieur. Welcome to Pa _ri_ s.''

Harry takes the white file from the officer, and nods his head sheepishly. He turns on his heel, dragging his suitcase across the tiles, along with his duffel bag and overnight bag. When he reaches the benches at the middle of the airport, right by the entrance, he sits down and puts the seatcase beside him.

He gathers that he'll _have_ to call Louis Tomlinson, or at least give him a text. But he decides that giving him a quick text is much too friend-like, especially when the man is already picking him up.

When he takes his mobile out of his jackets pocket again, his fingers are quick to scroll down to Mister Tomlinson in his contact list. He clicks 'call' and puts the electronic device to his ear.

It gives three, short rings, before Louis Tomlinsons French accent dances through the phone.

''Bonjour, 'arry Styles!'' The mans voice says into the phone, and he seems flustered, much even out of breath. ''I see that your flight has landed, about.. Twenty minutes ago. And I'm here, do you know where you are?''

Harry looks around at the airport, and suddenly a females voice takes up every speaker in the building, speaking in solid French.

''Sorry,'' Harry says shyly into the phone, ''I didn't quite hear what you said. I was blocked out by the..''

There is a smooth laugh at the end, and Harry's lips quirk up into an embarassed lilt of a smile. ''Oh, yes,'' Louis Tomlinson says, still laughing. ''I've heard it too. She's allocating people where to go.''

Harry nods, and looks around. He gets up from the seat, then sits back down when he doesn't see any guy holding a mobile to his ear.

''Uh, well,'' Harry starts, shrugging his shoulder. He looks over at the sign besides the glass doors, that read _Entrée B_ in a bold, cursive font.

''I'm sitting on the benches by entrance B.''

He gets an acknowledged hum from the other line. ''Mm. I know where that is, I'll be there soon, garçon.''

Harry clicks the phone off, and lifts his duffel bag over his shoulder. He gets up from the bench, and looks around. He still doesn't see anyone, but then he sees a guy pacing around that has a curtate figure.

He has on a black blazer that Harry gathers, must be from Marc Jacobs. He recognizes the cotton of the thin material, and the front pocket lapels. It was the same blazer his mum had bought on the Marc Jacobs online store in Two Thousand and Fourteen, when Christmas was nearing, and she figured that samite ties weren't of Robins interest any longer. Especially when ties of different colours and patterns, yet the same fabric were piling up in his drawer.

Harry lifts his gaze from the older mans immoderate suit. The mans sharp cranium is adorned by a halo of brown hair, that matches one of _burnt sienna_ and sorrel.

It still looks pleasantly nice. And it looks as though it smells good, too, if Harry wasn't lying.

Harry immediately stands up, and strides over to the guy.

''Are you Louis Tomlinson?'' He asks. And when the corners of the mans lips tilt up into a smile, Harry realises that it _is_ him.

''Oui, 'arry Styles?''

Harry nods enthusiastically, and the man beams. He holds out a hand for Harry to take, and immediately Harry lurches forward, shaking the mans smaller one.

''It's really a pleasure to meet you..'' Harry looks unsure, but then lets go, ''Mister Tomlinson.''

The man laughs a soft one, and only now Harry realises how delicate and melodious it is. It's subdued and hazy. When he talks, the syllables and vowels dance on his tongue in deep French.

Harry stares for a second longer.

''Call me Louis.'' He laughs again, taking Harry's two bags off his shoulders, ''I'd rather have you calling me by my first name. We will be staying together for awhile and I want you to be comfortable as possible.''

Harry feels a layer of warmth coat his face. He hasn't always been good in the company of strangers. Especially not French natives with shiny white teeth, beryl eyes and the mixed smell of musk, butter créme and a distinct smell of Mille-fueille.

He must of had the dessert for tea before he picked Harry up.

Harry nods, and allows Louis to take both his bags, before his hand hooks around the arm of his suitcase and he drags the carrier along with them as they make their way out of the airport.

''It's nice to meet you too, though, 'arry.'' Louis says, his posture lean as he hoists both bags on his shoulder. ''I can tell that we'll have a very good time together here in Le Paris.'' He jostles a cordial smile, which Harry reciprocates.

The weather is far more different than the weather back in England. It's not that hot in the heart of France, though, but the Sun shines so brightly, that Harry has to press his hand to his forehead as the Sun beats down on their backs.

''How was the flight?'' Louis wonders, ''boring?'' he suggests with a benign smile.

Louis comes to a hault in front of a piceous black Bugatti, and Harry sheepishly stands to the side, almost timid. Louis doesn't say anything about Harry's demeanor, except he offers him a friendly smile, and lifts the boot of his Bugatti. He puts the two bags into the small compartment, and turns to Harry, puffing out a huff of exaggerated humor,

''You know,'' Louis takes Harry out of his daze, chuckling in mirth, ''You're going to have to hand me your suitcase someday.''

''Oh.'' Harry laughs modestly. He lets go from the suitcase, but Louis' hands is already unhooking Harry's fingers from around the suitcase. Louis gently puts Harry's hand beside his body, and Harry shrinks back, letting out a stiffened cough.

It isn't the norm that guys touch Harry in that way; not _even_ girls touch him like that.

Louis seems brave, and really friendly, though.

And Harry wouldn't mind if he touched his hand like that again.

Harry stands back as he watches the older, yet more petite man lift the suitcase into the boot. He eventually closes it again, and walks over to the other side.

''Please get in, garçon.''

Harry obliges, hesitantly sliding in at the passengers side.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The drive to Louis' home is silent, and slightly morbid. Louis switches between numerous French radio channels, until he finally lands on a song that he tells Harry is _La mer_ by Charles Trenet. He listens to Louis ramble on about how Charles was his favourite French musician growing up as a teenager, and Harry wonders just how old Louis is.

He feels obligated to know. Because in the paperwork he sent Louis - he had listed his date of birth, his middle name, his specialities, and every other thing that Louis had asked of him. He felt like Louis had known him more than Harry had known him.

It wasn't that it was an important prospect, anyhow. Harry just felt the need to know.

Louis tells him about each and every song as he switches radio channels, and moans begrudgingly at the French talk shows that fill the car. Harry only stiffles back a laugh, and nods his head sparingly, as Louis enthuses him more about Charles Trenet. And when _Amoureuse_ by Véronique Sanson comes on; Louis sings along to the fluent French song, in the most tranquil and rippleless voice Harry had ever heard.

And it's not that Harry doesn't necessarily pay attention to anything Louis says when he lowers the volume of the nearly ended song, and looks at Harry with raised brows..

''Hmm?'' Harry asks, being compressed out of his daze.

It's just that sometimes Louis mixes his French with his English, and Harry thinks it wrecks havoc inside of him.

''I asked if you were, you know, familiar with any French musicians?'' He repeats, looking at Harry with an expectant gaze. Louis looks as though he has been put off, because his demeanor has morphed into a slump, and his red stained lips have lingered downward.

''Oh,'' Harry says, feeling flustered. ''I know David Guetta.''

Louis smiles a small one, giving Harry's thigh a pat. He must notice the younger boys discomfort and embarrassment.

''Oh, 'arry,'' he laughs, sounding crestfallen. ''I'm sorry, but I don't think Dav _i_ d Guetta is Français.''

Louis watches as Harry's shoulders shrink in his seat, and he mentally heaves out a sigh, in almost slow ripples of, _no no no_. Harry's a guest, even if they'll be working on cakes, and jotting down recipes - he's still a guest.

''German, maybe?'' He suggests, looking back Harry hopefully.

''Perhaps.'' He laughs, and they both end up laughing.

They pass a lot of famous monuments Harry had always seen in those Travel & Guide magazines. They even pass ice-cream stands, and Louis tells him that he thinks Harry would like the _Pecan Gelato_ the most. And all Harry does is nod, sometimes, he allows Louis to just give his thigh an excited pat, when another song comes on.

When they reach the upper side of Paris, Louis tells Harry that he _has to taste Français ice-cream_ and he won't let Harry _wait another second longer_.

Harry obliges, feeling too shy to even reject the offer.

Louis stops his Bugatti along the row of buildings, and pulls Harry along to an ice-cream parlour that has the word _Berthillon_ painted onto a board in gold, italicized letters.

''You don't have to buy me ice-cream, you know. I'm alright.''

''Nonsense!'' Louis exclaims, opening the heavy glass doors of the ice-cream parlor and holding it open so that Harry can slip past. ''It's your first time in Pa _ri_ s, of course I'm going to take you to the best ice-cream parlor in the city.''

Harry lets out a low hum of approval, and watches as Louis strides over to the counter, following behind him.

The ice-cream parlor is different to the plain, laid-back parlors they have back in England. The style of the parlor is lavish, with golden coated marble tops for tables, and engraved tracings of flower patterns all on he edges. And there is a faint scent of gelato, and sweet dripping icing, that matches the remedy and physique of the parlors light pink wallpaper.

''Bonjour, monsieur!'' A plump figured man behind the tall counter greets, with a white hat that is embroided with the name _Berthillon_ on it. ''Est at-il quelque chose que je peux faire pour vous?''

Louis offers the man a kind smile and nods his head. Harry turns his gaze away from the two, and lets it fall to the different types of ice-cream that's enclosed by a glass cabinet.

''Bonjour, uh,'' Louis says, pressing his hands on the cool, marble top of the counter, tilting his head to the side and looking at the different flavors of ice-cream. ''Puis-je obtenir un mélange de Lemon Chiffon, Nougat et Caramel Praline.''

The man behind the counter nods his head, and gets one sugar cone from the side of the till. Louis points down to three types of ice-cream flavours with his finger, and the man gracefully scoops it up into the sugar cone.

''What are you having, 'arry?'' Louis looks at him expectantly, as the man scoops up more of the ice-cream.

''Uh,'' Harry says, looking down at the flavours, and he doesn't understand anything. Because they're all in French. ''What did you take?''

'' _Nougat_ , _Caramel Praline_ and _Lemon Chiffon_.'' Louis says, as the man hands him the sugar cone with three scoops. ''The Lemon Chiffin is really tasty.''

''I'll have Lemon Chiffon then.''

Louis raises are brow at Harry, allowing his tongue to drum against the dripping dessert. ''Non, 'arry. You can never pick only one flavor at Berthillon.. Then it will just — it will just taste like normal ice-cream.''

''Alright,'' Harry laughs softly, turning back to the glass cabinet. ''I'll take the Lemon Chiffon, the Raspberry, and the Chocolate.''

''Voilà catastrophe.'' Louis says dramatically, and both Harry and the man stare at him in surprise. ''Taking Raspberry and Chocolate is a horrible mixture, 'arry. Try something else.''

Harry raises his hands, then drops them down; giving up.

''Fine, fine. You choose for my part then.''

Louis shrugs his shoulders, and holds the sugar cone in his hand. ''Cyan, give my English friend here a dose of Salted Caramel, Lemon Chiffon and Chocolate.''

Harry finds the combination disturbingly horrid, but Louis objects and reassures him that it's _franchement le meilleur._ And Harry has no idea what that means, or what anything in French means that Louis has been mixing and matching with English since he arrived in Paris. But Louis has good taste in ice-cream, and Harry doesn't find it surprising at all. _Chef & baking_ etiquitte and that, he presumes.

And it must be _franchement le meilleur_ , because it tastes really good.

After another full thirty minutes of Louis ranting on and on to Harry about how one is to never have Raspberry and Chocolate, and Harry praising him with a tiny smile, they finally arrive at _Rue Tournefort_ , which Harry learns is on the complete opposite side of the city. Much more, even further away from Berthillon.

And he doesn't mind; Berthillons ice-cream is really good, and Louis Tomlinson is kind.

''Thank you for the ice-cream.''

''Non, you don't have to thank me. I like treating my guests.'' Louis finishes the last of his sugar coned ice-cream, turning his head to look at Harry. And when Harry looks back, he smiles a small one, to which Louis automatically reciprocates it.

''Do you go there a lot?'' He asks, attempting to instill the silence.

''Oui.''

He turns up the volume on the radio when they stop at one of the red lights, waiting for a long line of people to cross the road.

''I've been going there since I was a teen, like you.'' He licks his lips, putting the sticky tissue into the tiny disposbal bin he has in the center of his car. ''And believe it or not, today was the first time I brought someone else with me.''

Harry doesn't say anything to that, except he tightens his grip around his sugar cone, never minding to take his gaze off from Louis.

 

                                                                                                                           ...

When they arrive at Louis' place, Harry realises that Louis is probably _rolling in it_. But he guesses that he likes keeping in that humble state of mind. Because his house is large enough to have a private restaurant, but it's still kept simple and comfortable. He has a large kitchen, and the pantry is only a size smaller. The lounge area is opposite the kitchen, and the dining area intersects with the in-home bar.

''You can make yourself at home, 'arry,'' Louis says, waltzing around the kitchen. ''The kitchen is all yours, whether I'm here or not here.'' He says as he slides past the island and opens the white French doors leading to the pantry.

''And,'' he peeks inside, switching the light on. ''If you can't find what you need in the kitchen, then here is the pantry, yes?''

Harry isn't usually _this_ shy in front of people — he is, but he does have the gift of speech. Except, Louis Tomlinson is another kind of person, and Harry likes the roll of his tongue. But he knows if he says that, it would probably make everything awkward.

But, it's a compliment. It would be normal to get a compliment from an Englishman on your accent, _isn't it_?

Harry lets Louis lead him out of the kitchen, and up the staircase.

Upstairs isn't any more different than downstairs. There are white rugs lined up down the hallway, and a portrait at the end of the hallway.

When Louis opens one of the doors, Harry stands back, allowing Louis to hawl his suitcase into the bedroom. Harry looks around, allowing his eyes to settle on the mass of books on the bookshelf - which he gathers, he'll be preoccupied by everynight if he isn't Facetiming anyone, or baking anything - there are two balcony doors, and both are shut closed and covered by white curtains.

Louis puts the suitcase beside the bed, and draws the curtains open, until the light in the room nearly blinds Harry.

''Sorry,'' Louis laughs shortly, looking back at Harry and drawing the curtains closed a bit, ''I just prefer always keeping my curtains shut. I live alone, you know. It gets a bit risky here.''

''You live alone?'' Harry asks, scratching the back of his neck in aloofness. ''I thought you had a wife.''

Louis turns the knob of the bathroom in the guest bedroom, and the door opens. He turn back to Harry, shrugging his shoulders. ''No, I'm single. And I'm not interested in women.''

''Wait-''

Harry stops himself mid-sentence. His eyebrows knit together, and he takes a step back. ''Are you gay?''

''Oui.'' Louis says enthusiastically, smiling.

''And you're comfortable with just saying that?'' Harry asks again, staring at him in disbelief.

''Oui.''

''Oh,'' Harry says, looking at the older male in front of him. He digs his hands into his jeans pocket, and awkwardly swipes his Converse shoes back and fourth across the carpet, ''isn't that a problem now, then?''

Louis' lips part for a second, and then they close again, before he reopens them. Louis' eyes catch the lampshade beside the bed, and his eyebrows meet in confusion, before they hop back onto Harry. ''Why would that be a problem?''

''I mean, I'm a male.. _You_ like males.''

Louis looks slightly offended, and honestly, Harry didn't mean it.

He just hasn't ever met someone that's part of the homosexual community. Sure, he has heard it in the tabloids. He has heard his mum and Robin often discussing it. But he has always been so one sided when it came to social factors that he rarely ever intervened himself with gays or lesbians. Subjectively, he never felt the need to ask his friends if they were straight, asexual or homosexual. So he wouldn't know, anyhow.

It just wasn't a _thing_.

But now he was in a room with one, and he'd have to be staying with him for three months. He doesn't know how he should react to that.

He doesn't even know if he should have a reaction.

''I'm gay, but I'm not going to try anything. I'm Twenty Seven, Harry,'' Louis sighs blankly.

Harry's face falls flat, and his jaw sags down. ''I'm Eighteen, I'm legal.''

He doesn't know why he had said that. He just doesn't like the idea of people nearly all the time belittling him because of his age. Except, Louis wasn't belittling him. Only but trying to lighten up the situation.

''I know. You made that very much clear in your paperwork. Was an italic bold font really necessary?'' Louis laughs, but Harry doesn't laugh.

''Non, look,'' Louis says, his tone morphed into one of seriousity now, ''you may be legal in Britain. But not here in the French Republic. So I wouldn't try anything anyway, yes?''

Harry settles back, nodding his head.

''Besides,'' Louis says outloud, shrugging his shoulders. ''I _do_ get some, every once in awhile.''

Harry hums shortly after that. He doesn't know how to respond, because he isn't even entirely sure if Louis wants him to respond to a statement about his sex life.

Harry sits back on the bed, and follows Louis' figure as he paces back and fourth throughout the room and the bathroom; making it as comfortable for Harry as possible. He fluffs the pillows, and takes out extra bed covers for when it gets chilly at night.

He even takes the debris and the lint off one of the towels that had been in the bathroom.

''If you need any supplies from the supermarket, you can always tell me and I'll go buy them for you.'' Louis walks over to the door of the guest bedroom, pursing his lips. ''But I _do_ have enough, so you don't need to buy, oui?''

Harry's lips tilt up into a smile at the kind offer, and he nods his head half-heartedly, ''thank you.''

''No worries, garçon,'' Louis says, holding onto the doorknob of the door, before he opens it and walks out. ''Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.''

When Louis disappears, Harry huffs and throws his body back on the bed. He wonders if he should take the first flight back home to England and find another Pastry Chef to stay at, preferably one who is heterosexual and much, much more older. Harry thinks that he should find another Pastry Chef that doesn't have flocculent, brown hair, or eyes that look like milli-rays of azure blues.

But Louis said that he wouldn't try anything with Harry.

So he might as well stay in Paris, and wait until the three months are over so that he can be back home again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter is up and it's just a shorty I presume, but if anyone is kind enough or interested enough, I'm looking for someone to beta each chapter for me :-)
> 
> So if you're interested, please comment your twitter, if you want, or don't comment on Anon so that I can contact you on here rather. I'm terribly in need as all of these chapters are unbeta'd and also I've never tried it so I'm pretty excited

When Harry arrives in the dining room, he sees Louis leaning over the long table, pouring Red wine into two champagne glasses facing one another. When he notices Harry's presence, he smiles firmly, gesturing him to take a seat.

''I hope you like trying new things.. I've heard the English are fussy, yes?''

Harry laughs quietly, digging his fingertips into the cool platter he had brought from home. It had the crumpets and the Cornish pastry he had made for Louis.

''Well, yeah. Most are, but I don't mind. In fact,'' he looks over at Louis, who's now sitting down in front of him, ''I've brought you something from home too.''

He finally lifts the platter up onto the table, and he doesn't know if it's the nerves of Louis potentially not liking his baked gifts, or the nerves of how Louis' red lips part, and then curl up into a smile, because he _almost_ doesn't want to show him the platter.

But he does.

Louis' gaze falls onto the ceramic container, and Harry moves it closer to him. ''I thought it would be nice to make you something. It's not anything much, just Cornish pastry, and English crumpets. I hope you'll like them.''

Louis lifts the lid from the platter. He takes a spoon from his plate, and digs it into the Cornish pastry, before he allows it to slip pass his mouth. He closes his eyes, and Harry shrinks back.

''Oh, 'Arry,'' he moans outloud, and Harry feels his insides galloping, ''this is so savoureux, it's lovely.''

He takes another spoonful into his mouth, and Harry feels red trickle up his neck. ''I don't know what savou..'' Harry stops mid-point, scratching the back of his neck.

'' _Savoureux_ ,'' Louis says, holding back a bubbly smile, ''it means 'tasty', you needn't worry, 'arry.''

Before Harry can thank him, he gets up from the chair in a startled rush, and makes his way into the kitchen. ''Sorry!'' He calls back, his voice wavering from the next room, ''I forgot about the Crêpe.''

Harry shrugs his shoulders, even though Louis can't see him and his gaze falls onto the food on the table. He notices that in the middle of the table, Louis has set out a flat platter with a rounded pastry on the top, and miniature blobs of spinach all on the inside. It smells heavenly, even from where he's sitting. Only the one side of the table is decked with food; from the heavenly pastry, to Baguette and to meat, and topped with Red wine.

When Louis walks steadily back into the dining area, he has both of his hands on either side of a dish, with a cloth hindering his hands from the heat. Harry gathers that it must be the Crêpe.

Louis puts the dish down in the center, and sits down in front of Harry again. He lifts his glass, and Harry follows his actions; slowly wrapping his hand around the upper body of the champagne glass.

''To, uh,'' Louis looks undecided, letting out a laugh, managing to make Harry laugh too. ''I think.. to _you_. This is to you, and to French food.''

They clink their champagne glasses together, edging on a sound in the silent room. Louis lets the cool glass slip between his lips, and he sips on the Red wine. Harry faulters for a millisecond, allowing Louis to drink from his wine, before he takes a sip as well.

Harry doesn't say anything about it after that, except he allows Louis to enthuse him on the foods he had made for Harry especially.

''I thought you'd like the Quiche Florentine more than the Quiche Fromage,'' Louis' thick French accent pours into the room and Harry looks down sheepishly. He doesn't know what to think of that.

''What's the difference?'' He intervenes instead, eyeing the dessert Louis is talking about.

Louis' brows raise, and then pinch together. Nude, red lips skimping into a smile. ''Fromage you make with cheese, and Florentine you make with spinach, 'arry, garçon.''

Harry nods his head, looking down at his plate of food, and Louis can sense that he's a bit shy.

''Well, then,'' Louis' voice chimes, and Harry raises his head from the plate of food, ''Bon appetite!''

Louis presses the silver fork into the tender of his meat, joining his knife, and cutting a wedge off from the food. He grazes it his lips, and Harry does the same. At home, though. They wouldn't go through all this trouble, to have champagne glasses on the table, with new cutlery and such expensive wine. The only time his mum really decorated the table and made it look fancy when it was Sabbath day, Easter, Christmas, or any other holiday.

Harry dips the meat into the sauce, and chews on it. He lets out a low hum of approval, ''this is really good, Louis.''

Louis smiles a chipped one, eating from his food.

Throughout dinner, Louis and Harry converse. Harry tells him about his favourite foods, and Harry learns that Louis doesn't have a favourite, because he simply can't choose one, or two. Harry finds himself laughing half of the time at the things Louis says, and the other half of the time, his eyes catch the roll of Louis' tongue, and the oscillation of his lips. Harry leans back most of the time, and listens to Louis talk about what it's like being in the kitchen, and Harry feels that he has become really invested; in the talk of the career — _that is_.

Louis goes on to pour himself his third glass of wine, and he watches Harry with hooded eyes.

''Have you tried the Crêpe, non?'' Louis asks Harry. He leans forward, brooding, and putting his soft fingertips over Harry's hand.

Harry looks down, and shifts uncomfortably.

Louis doesn't mind touching his hand everytime, and Harry doesn't know what to think of it.

Louis lifts his fingertips off Harry's hand, noticing his disdain. He looks down at the dish of Crêpe. ''It's really devine.''

Harry nods his head, dishing him so of the Crêpe. He catches Louis' gaze on his frame, as the older guy sips on the wine. Harry looks at the bags that have accumulated beneath his light eyes, and Harry feels nothing more than the need to rake his hands through the hair Louis has.

It looks to be adequate and smooth, _so_ smooth.

The conversation dies down after awhile, but they continue to eat, in mere silence.

''Are there any monuments you'd like to visit tomorrow before we get started?''

Harry shrugs his shoulders, picking at the Crêpe. ''The Opera Garnier.''

''Oh,'' Louis smiles so big, Harry thinks the older mans lips might stretch further than possible. ''I used to sing there.''

''You have?'' Harry stares at him in bewilderment, dropping the silver fork. ''How is it?''

''Yes. All the time.'' He says, lifting himself up, and leaning his elbows on the table, ''I used to perform a song every Sunday after church with my family. And most of the time I was playing the piano.''

''You'll have to sing something for me sometime.''

As soon as the words leave Harry's lips he feels a deep shade of red creep up his neck. But the corners of Louis' lips tilt up into a smile, and he doesn't mind it.

''I will. Don't worry, garçon.'' Louis says, taking a sip from his wine. ''I'll sing one of Charles Trenets for you.''

After dinner, Harry offers to help Louis clean up. And he only shakes his head, offering Harry a kind smile. Allowing the words, _you're a guest, you only help to clean after we've done practicals_ roll off his tongue.

They finally retreat the stairs, and Louis gushes about how amazing Harry's Cornish pastry was. And Harry only laughs it off, feeling a massive weight lifting off his shoulders.

He watches Louis with dilated eyes as he scampers across the guest bedroom; getting an extra pillow for Harry, rolling the blankets out and fluffing more pillows.

''It's _so_ hot in Paris, but it gets super chilly in the night time,'' Louis says, rambling on to Harry about the weather conditions and the climate changes.

He stands at the edge of the bed, lifting a pillow between his two hands and fluffing it in a rush. ''If you need another blanket don't hesitate to get one from the main hall. Or, you can even wake me up, alright?'' He says rhetorically, moving to lift the white blanket up.

And Harry takes a step closer to him and he doesn't know why. His heart is beating so fast, and blocks out all Louis' mixtures of English and French, and the pure rambling of the cold, and timidly stands behind Louis.

'' _Just_ — if you're feeling cold, I can get you more blankets. And when you're feeling uncomfortable, I can get you more pillows.''

Harry thinks that he must be tipsy, but he has only had one glass of wine.

''I think that I want to kiss you,'' Harry says, his voice shamefully soft. But still loud enough for Louis to hear him.

Louis turns around to face Harry, surprised to find the younger boy only a step away from him.

Louis reaches down to take Harry's hand in his own, cupping it entirely. Harry looks at him with a light blush that cascades his cheeks, and he flicks his head down sheepishly, the wine bursting in his throat.

Harry doesn't know what's happening, or why it's happening. But there's a feeling inside of his stomach that feels as though it's galloping faster than it had the first time, and he feels longing in his fingertips and weakness in his parted lips as he watches the man in front of him. And his heart beats faster with each _pound_ , and he just wants to kiss him.

''Mon garçon, you can't think you want to kiss someone. You have to _know_ you want to kiss them.''

Except, maybe it is the wine.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry feels as though his t-shirt has shrunk down to a size smaller, and as though his pants have grown tighter. He feels his clothing cling to his body, and a layer of sweat disperses on his pale skin.

He feels mortified. And Louis just stands there — eyeing him in speculation.

He doesn't say anything.

And _that_ makes Harry wonder.

Low gulps bob up and down his throat, and seconds bleed into minutes, before Harry's pushing past Louis, and shuffling into the bathroom.

He slams the door shut, with a _bang_. And he falls to his knees, allowing all the food he had eaten to thrust out of his body. He feels his stomach twist, and puncture, as the food leaves in spews of acid, and nervous regret.

''Jesus, 'arry!'' Louis is by his side, and he relaxes against the mans touch; the way his palm rubs ever so softly against the arch of Harry's back, and the way he peeks down at Harry in concern. ''Did you sneak in more wine when I wasn't looking?''

Harry wants to laugh, but he doesn't.

Because he's so confused, and his lips are still stained with red wine, and his tastebuds reek of vomit, and Louis is touching him, still.

He presses his palms against the seat of the toilet, feeling to nauseas to even allow words to circulate.

''No more wine for you then, oui?'' Louis' voice is soft, and melodious. Harry's body tenses, and he lifts himself up on his palms.

''I didn't want to kiss you.''

The bathroom falls silent, and for a second it's only the low vibrations of Harry's heart, that feels as though it's beating in his throat.

''Yes, yes,'' Louis says, looking down at Harry, when the boy wrenches up in coughs, ''I know.''

Harry let's out a hum of response, sliding his knees against the white tiles of the bathroom, and getting up from the ground. He wipes a hand across his mouth, perching his hands on the counter of the basin.

''I mean..'' Harry looks like he regrets the night, face hung low, and disheveled curls sticking to the side of face. He turns to Louis, ''I mean, I wanted to. But I can't kiss you.''

''Then you don't have to kiss me.''

Harry's gaze flickers up to Louis' face, and the mans eyes are trained on his. He looks nonchalant, almost casual by Harry's words. But his face is muted in a curve of a frown, and Harry turns away.

He opens the faucet, and splashes cold water against his face, before his lips part, and he jugs water down.

''But I want to,'' he says after awhile.

Louis only stares at him, and this time Harry wishes he was back home in England; playing a round of snooker with Robin, and watching moodless chick flicks with Gemma. Instead of vomiting out his dinner, and being to afraid to kiss someone, yet being even more afraid of the idea of even _wanting_ to kiss them.

The idea makes him want to hurl, _again_.

Louis walks up to him, and hands him a white towel that smells of lavender, and it carries a distant smell of mint.

Harry wipes it across his mouth, tensing up when he feels the tips of Louis' fingers riveting against his jaw. And he hitches a breath, rumbling out on his tongue, in slow, slow, _slow_ movements.

Harry lets his eyes droop shut, when the warmth of Louis' fingers radiates to the core of his lips. He lubricates his thumb over Harry's bottom lip, and Harry supplies a low, almost muddled groan.

And just when Harry thinks Louis is going to kiss him, and the bad feeling in his tummy will disperse; Louis pulls his fingers away, and lets it fall to his side.

Harry's eyes flutter open, and he catches a small eyed Louis staring back at him. Blue eyes, _so_ icy and nearly cerulean.

''I don't want you to regret anything.''

Harry's lips part, and he takes a step back.

Because — what if it is that Harry thinks he won't regret it when morning arrives, and what if it is that Harry thinks Louis' lips look nice.

The idea of kissing the older man drives him to the edge.

''I don't want to kiss you,'' Harry says _again_ , and turns around.

The reluctancy in his voice, leaves Louis dropping the towel over Harry's shoulder, a misted smile greeting Harry.

''I know.''

Harry watches Louis' curtate figure in the mirror leave the bathroom, and for a second Harry wants to feel guilty, but he doesn't. And Louis doesn't seem fazed by it, anyhow.

　

　

                                                                                                          ...

When darkness clouds the sky, and harsh rain pelts against the roof of the house and the patio; Harry stares wide eyed up at the ceiling. The moon outside his window, illuminates a spectrum of golden light into the guest bedroom, and his thoughts are nearly as clouded as the weather tonight.

Stupid Parisian weather, _stupid Parisians_ , he thinks.

After Harry had not so subtly confirmed that he wanted to kiss Louis, then immediately back-tracked — they hadn't spoken again.

Harry wonders what Louis is doing now. He's probably fast asleep in his big, comfortable bed, draped by one too many blankets, and suffocated by hundreds of pillows. Maybe he's up thinking like Harry right now, bile reaching to his stomach when he thinks about a desperate teenager wanting to kiss him.

 _I don't want you to regret anything_ , as in: I don't kiss Eighteen year olds.

 _I don't want you to regret anything_ , as in: I could do way better.

 _I don't want you to regret anything_ , as in: I will be the one regretting it, actually.

And, that's just it. Louis is gay, isn't he? He would've been happy when a male offered to snog him, or maybe Harry's got it all wrong, and Louis just doesn't want to kiss him.

 

 

 

 

**I'm uploading another shorty tonight because larry is real and Briana ain't no baby mama.**


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